


Black Coffee

by TimeToRemember



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - no Neverland, Baristas, Dating, M/M, Motor vehicle theft, Pre-Slash, Road Trips, Slash, sick days
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-16
Updated: 2014-11-03
Packaged: 2018-02-09 01:32:59
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 11,177
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1963929
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TimeToRemember/pseuds/TimeToRemember
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU. </p><p>Felix is a barista.</p><p>Peter is his most frequent customer.</p><p>They date.</p><p>That's it, that's the fic.</p><p>Many cups of black coffee later, they might actually talk about what's happening, what this thing is that's growing between them, but I wouldn't count on it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

“A large black coffee, please. Staying in, of course. I’d like to continue enjoying the view.”

Felix gives him _the look_ , the one he’s become cheerfully familiar with over the past week, the look that says he knows what Peter is up to and he isn’t going to play today, no, and Peter just smirks back, leaning forwards over the counter just to see the way he twitches. Felix isn’t scared of him – not of the look in his eyes or the way he smiles or the threat in his deliberately casual movements – but he reacts when people get up in his space, and Peter gets a kick out of it that’s just as strong as when it happened the first time they met, when he leaned in to read the smudged name tag attached to the slim-fitting black shirt and Felix’s hands had clenched into fists. They don’t this time – Felix is used to it by now – but he does twitch, and Peter’s smirk is practically a Pavlovian response, it’s so automatic.

Peter raises an eyebrow, silently daring him to comment, but Felix does the same thing he’s done for the last week – dials it up on the till, then very calmly asks him for the amount as the second barista serves the coffee up onto a tray, pointedly ignoring their sudden proximity. And Peter follows the pattern too – he backs off, hands the cash over, makes sure their fingers brush for far longer than is necessary, and then saunters off, without the coffee, to sit at his usual booth.

Felix glares after him – Peter smirks back, and then it’s just a matter of waiting to see who will cave first.

It’s always Felix. It has to be, really. Peter thinks he’d probably withstand him if the circumstances were different, but when it had happened the first time, Felix staring after him, disbelief mixing with growing fury and swallowing up his normal calm impassivity, quite clearly refusing to deliver his coffee, his manager had appeared as if by magic from the kitchen and told Felix to take it to him because if that’s how he wanted to be treated then that was how he would get treated, because the _customer was always right._

Felix’s expression told Peter exactly what he thought of that little snippet of advice, but he’d brought the coffee over, grudgingly, setting it down in front of Peter with a pointed huff and a put-upon expression.

They’ve made some progress since then. Peter always abandons his coffee, but he tips well – ludicrously well, really – and although he’s always up in Felix’s space as if he belongs there, he’s never tried anything, never acted in a way that was even remotely threatening. In turn, Felix no longer looks as if he’d rather be given a one-way ticket to Pluto than take his coffee to him, which – progress.

And today is like every other day. Felix brings over his coffee, places it in front of him, and turns to go, but then – Peter veers wildly from the pattern. Just tosses it aside as if they haven’t been adhering to it perfectly for the last six days. “Felix. Come here.”

Felix turns, eyes him. 

Peter gestures at the seat opposite his in the booth, then smiles cheerily.

Felix doesn’t look at all convinced by his attempt to appear non-threatening, and when he glances over his shoulder at the counter and the other barista – Henry, Peter had found out on day one – Peter knows he’s considering two options. On the one hand, there’s the safety of the established pattern, in the repetition of doing what’s expected. On the other, there’s Peter, and he’s not safe at all.

Peter smirks, unrepentantly smug, when Felix slides into the booth.

“Took you long enough,” he tuts, just to see the glare again. Felix obliges wonderfully, eyes narrowing, so Peter beams at him, and can’t really resist saying what comes out next.

“Good boy,” he teases, reaching out at the same moment to pick up the mug of coffee.

Quick eyes don’t miss Felix’s reaction; even if it is small, suppressed and unexpected, don’t miss the sudden flare of heat in his eyes, the way his strong, slender fingers twist together in his lap, the tiny hint of teeth as he bites his lower lip.

Oh.

_Oh._

Peter’s surprise must be visible, because Felix’s expression, open and only mildly irritated at that point, closes instantly, flat, impassive mask covering everything over with impressive speed. He stands, clearly preparing to go, and Peter’s hand darts out, fingers closing over Felix’s wrist.

This time, the twitch is a full-body movement, and Felix yanks his hand free with a wordless snarl, stalking back to the counter.

Peter might be in love.

He drinks his coffee, watches Felix shamelessly for the next hour, and then saunters back up to the counter for a refill.

Felix is dialing his order up before he can make it, jaw clenched and looking anywhere but at him, but Peter was prepared for that.

“A large black coffee, please, and you.”

Felix’s hand slips on the keys of the till, adding a wrong digit that he erases with a quick stab of his index finger. “I’m not – “ he starts, but Peter just rolls straight over him with a singsong “non-negotiable,” as he drops the cash onto the counter and saunters back to his table.

“Felix,” he purrs, when the coffee is ready, “get over here.”

And Felix does. He walks over slowly, but when he sets the coffee down in front of Peter, he resumes his seat, and stays, impassive, but refusing to catch Peter’s eye.

Peter wonders, idly, what it would be like to have Felix without the reluctance, open and responsive and accessible in a way Peter speculates he was before he received the injury that left the thin scar on his face.

“Tell me about yourself,” he instructs, and Felix’s lips twitch into a smile at the oh-so-cliché line, but he obeys, talking stiltedly at first, but eventually with increasing animation, about his life. About his books – books on everything, fiction and fact but with a marked absence of memoirs – and his cat, a mongrel type that Felix clearly adores, and about the evenings he spends at the orphanage working with young children, and by the time Peter has finished his drink and Felix is winding down to an uncertain halt, Peter knows two things. 1) He’s in love, and 2) Felix will be his.

He leaves the coffee shop brimming with success, calling out a blithe “until tomorrow, Felix,” as he pushes the door open.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Come and talk to me on tumblr.](http://thehatofthehatter.tumblr.com/)


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter is nothing if not relentless in pursuing what he wants. 
> 
> What he wants is Felix.
> 
> It's not a problem. 
> 
> He's hardly going to _fail,_ after all. That's just not what he does.

He’s back the next day. Walks into the shop as if he owns the place, carries on past the line of customers, and stops in front of counter and, by extension, Felix.

He doesn’t look thrilled to see him, but that’s okay. Peter knows he doesn’t mean it. He’s probably just irritated about the queue jumping, but that’s hardly a major problem, and it doesn’t really register on Peter’s radar. He doesn’t come here _every single day_ for the atmosphere, nice as it is. 

“Did you have a good night, Felix?” he asks, simultaneously intent and chatty, leaning halfway over the counter in a casual sprawl. He can hear angry sounds behind him, but no one seems up to a confrontation – apart from Felix, who looks seconds away from dragging Peter out of the shop – so Peter focuses upon the important things. Read: Felix.

Felix is watching him steadily, a slight frown marring his forehead. He looks like he’s waiting for Peter to come to his senses and start behaving like everyone else.

Poor Felix – this is _tame_ for Peter.

“I didn’t,” he continues blithely, apparently unaware of the fact that Felix hasn’t answered him and probably didn’t pay any attention to the question. He leans further over the counter. “I was alone, Felix,” he expands mournfully. “Empty bed, empty room, empty house,” he pauses for dramatic effect, and then finishes: “it was very tragic.”

Felix is still looking at him. 

“You say my name too much,” he says, finally. 

Peter smirks. 

Progress. 

Felix frowns again, but takes the money that Peter hands over – plus the ridiculously huge tip. 

 

Because he’s feeling generous, Peter picks up his coffee himself and carries it over to his usual booth with considerable aplomb, setting it down on the table. The entire time, the back of his neck prickles, and he knows without bothering to look that Felix is watching him. 

He smirks a little more. 

Then gestures, expansively, for Felix to join him.

Felix rolls his eyes so hard Peter’s concerned that he might sprain something, and then pointedly side-eyes the large, angry queue. The amount of sass he manages to convey without speaking is impressive. Despite the wait, the number of people in the queue hasn’t diminished at all, but then again, the coffee _is_ good and the boy serving it even better.

For a long, pointed moment, Felix doesn’t move. But finally, when Peter starts to raise an eyebrow, Felix reaches back into the display case, picks out a donut, rounds the counter with said donut in hand, and strolls over to join him as if this is a normal situation and he hasn’t suddenly stopped doing his job. 

Back at the counter, the other barista practically squawks, arms flailing, as they take in the queue that is now theirs to deal with alone. When Felix doesn’t respond, he mutters something under his breath, and starts in on the first order, slamming the cup down with far more force than is strictly necessary.

Peter admires his dedication, but he admires the boy walking towards him more.

 

Felix takes a seat, settles down with his long legs stretched out, and bites into the donut, eyes on Peter. He doesn’t look like he intends to say anything.

Peter sips from his coffee, smiling sagely.

Watches.

Takes another sip.

Their eyes are locked, now, and it’s a cliché and it should be ridiculous. There should be violins in the background, or perhaps the clashing thunder of war drums to indicate rising animosity – although Peter hopes the former would be more likely – but it’s not. It’s almost comfortable, in an odd way, because it’s blindingly obvious that neither of them wants to be the first to back off, to yield, and Peter isn’t ordinarily gifted with that response.

Peter places his cup back on the table, links his hands together, and stretches his legs out, taking up more of the space available in the booth. Felix twitches an eyebrow upwards, but doesn’t stop chewing.

His knees bump against Felix’s, but he doesn’t react. 

Peter stops moving for a moment or two, waits.

Then, Peter smirks straight at Felix as he pulls his right foot out of his boot and trails his toes up the inside of his leg to about mid-thigh, holding still there with his foot pressed against Felix’s warm body.

Felix’s donut falls from suddenly slack fingers onto the table, but he doesn’t seem to notice the absence. His eyes widen a little, and Peter stares straight back, smirk fading out. 

The moment lingers, both of them frozen, but then Felix stands up, Peter’s foot falling away, and steps out of the booth. He walks away, back straight, and doesn’t look back as he takes even, steady paces back to the counter. The other barista looks pleased to see him. 

Peter is disappointed for all of five seconds, but it would have been dull if he’d yielded to Peter’s advances straight away. 

_Challenge accepted._

 

Peter stays put to drink his coffee, but doesn’t play nicely. He watches Felix shamelessly and openly, and every single time Felix glances over, he raises his coffee cup in a kind of salute. The first few times it happens Felix glares back, practically exhaling ire, but then he seems to decide it’s not worth the trouble, and just sort of studies him flatly whenever he has a free moment. Peter, of course, preens under the attention. 

 

When his coffee is gone he approaches the counter again, strolling up to rest his arms on the glass. The other barista mutters something and vanishes into the kitchen, but Felix doesn’t react beyond clenching his jaw.

“So, Felix,” Peter drawls, “you never did tell me about your night.”

Felix looks as if he knows he should be confused by the sudden change of pace, and also as if he’s seriously considering not answering, but then he just shrugs as if he’s come to expect this kind of weirdness and no longer sees the point in trying to deny it. Peter can appreciate that kind of attitude.

“It was normal,” Felix replies, quiet, calm, unruffled. Peter wants to shake him up more than he wants air, but he stays put on his side of the counter and instead watches and listens intently. “I slept wonderfully,” Felix adds pointedly, mischief in his eyes, and that startles a short laugh from Peter that, in turn, makes Felix smile, soft and warm.

Peter wants to kiss him. 

Well, he wants to do a lot more than that. He wants to kiss Felix and take him home and wrap him up in his duvet and keep him forever, but he’s not about to actually voice any of that.

However.

“Come home with me.” He says it casually, even looks down while he does it, as if the suggestion that’s not quite a question is something he’s considered only momentarily, only in passing, something that might be nice but that he doesn’t in any way expect, and then just waits, looking down at his hands.

After a long, interminable pause, Felix snorts, and then laughs, suddenly. It’s a rough, indelicate sound, raucous and brief, but it’s genuine, open and friendly as well. Peter’s head jerks up, and he stares for a long moment at a Felix that’s finally relaxing in his presence, residual tension bleeding out of his shoulders as he expresses what looks to be real amusement. 

Peter’s not quite sure what he did to merit such a response, but he’s not about to ruin it either, so he just smirks in a self-satisfied sort of way – _and oh, he is satisfied_ – and then, when Felix settles down, no longer laughing but still smiling at him in a way he hasn’t seen before, a way the customers don’t see, he raises an eyebrow. “Is that a yes?”

Felix studies him again, expression shifting to shuttered and unreadable in seconds, for so long that Peter is uncharacteristically worried that he might have blown it, but then he nods, slowly. 

“I finish in an hour.”

“I’ll be waiting,” Peter practically purrs.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter brings Felix home with him.
> 
> They talk. 
> 
> Felix leaves, but he's going to come back. Peter can feel it.
> 
> And if he doesn't? Peter knows where he works. Felix might be reluctant, but that kiss didn't lie. 
> 
> Peter is not thinking about his hips. He's _not_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: There’s a change of tone, folks. This is why I could never write a book: it would be far too inconsistent. I hope you enjoy it anyway.

Peter is outside when the coffee shop finally closes up and the various employees come filing out, chatting about their day and sharing good-natured insults. He’s leaning casually against the red brick, one leg bent with his booted foot against the wall, hands in the pockets of his jacket. He's smiling in a way that suggests he could easily be the poster boy for bad decisions.

He glances at each employee when the door opens, but as soon as he ascertains that they are, in fact, _not Felix,_ he looks away, no longer interested. A few of them try to engage him in conversation - they've seen him in the shop - but his blatant disinterest soon has them backing off and walking away, insulted. Peter doesn't care.

When Felix finally emerges everyone but the owner has already left, cleaners included, and Peter is beginning to think that he’s been played. That feeling intensifies when Felix practically _saunters_ out in a leather jacket of all things, with what looks like a lollipop stick dangling loosely between his lips.

_Well hello oral fixation._

The owner says goodbye to Felix before starting down the road – he’s a large fellow, cheerful looking, the stereotypical baker – and Felix lifts a hand in a casual wave before he finally turns his attention to Peter.

Recognising his cue, Peter pushes off the wall to amble over, slow and deliberate, openly enjoying the way Felix watches him. When he’s up close and personal in Felix’s space, he stops, and they’re practically breathing the same air, they’re so close, but Felix doesn’t step back and doesn’t protest – just watches Peter, waiting.

“Come along then, Felix,” Peter says, lingering over the name that’s become so familiar to him over the last week or so, turning as he speaks to start walking down the street. There’s silence behind him, but then he hears footsteps, measured and unhurried. Felix appears by his side moments later, long and seemingly effortless strides making easy work of the distance. He stays there as they walk together, hesitating only momentarily when they reach a street and he doesn’t know which direction to walk in.

Peter owns easier methods of transportation, but walking beside Felix in the fresh, summery air, cool and comfortable now the heat of the day has faded, had seemed like too good an opportunity to pass up. 

He doesn’t ask Felix how the rest of his shift went without him, and Felix doesn’t ask how his day was. Neither of them is the type. Instead, they pass the short journey in comfortable silence but for the sound of their footsteps and the traffic passing by on the road.

 

Peter lives in a first floor apartment two blocks away from the coffee shop Felix works at. It’s spacious, comfortable and tastefully decorated, but it lacks the usual personal touches that one might expect: no posters, no photographs set out in various frames, no clutter. But none of that matters, because as soon as Peter steps inside, into the familiar space, it’s as if he breathes colour and life into it, as if the simple fact of his presence lends his home the missing vitality. He brings it into harmony with himself, the vibrant centre of his own personal universe.

Felix walks straight inside without hesitating and settles down on the couch without being asked, stretching out his long legs to make himself comfortable. Peter can’t help but smirk a little at the sight of him, fitting so easily into his personal space. “Would you like a drink?” he asks sweetly, playing the perfect host, and it makes Felix grin a little as he turns to see him propped up against the doorframe, arms folded and one eyebrow raised.

“Sure,” Felix replies. “Coffee, please.” He’s already smirking when he adds: “Black. And I’ll have it here.”

Peter grins as he strolls through into his kitchen to set the kettle boiling, wondering idly why it is that Felix opens up so easily around him while everyone else backs off. It's not because he doesn't sense the danger - Peter had seen it in his eyes the first time, before he'd managed to hide it - but perhaps it's because he knows it's there and doesn't mind. Perhaps it's because he is dangerous too.

Peter makes the drinks quickly, and then carries them both through, handing Felix's to him with an overly dramatic bow.

Felix takes the cup with a small smile. He blows softly over the liquid, then sets it on the table, long fingers curling around the handle. It’s a surprisingly delicate movement, and it makes Peter wonder what it would feel like to have those slender fingers on him.

Felix is looking at him as if he knows what Peter is thinking, but Peter smirks straight back as he takes a seat on the second couch, sprawling back comfortably. He doubts he's the first to fantasise about Felix in such a way, though it's possible he's the first to do it quite so openly.

Felix’s eyes linger on him a little longer, and then shift to take in the room around them, gliding over the bookshelves on one side, and the eclectic collection of CD’s next to it. He inhales suddenly, surprised, and his intent gaze snaps straight back to Peter. “You read Shakespeare,” he says, the lack of inflection suggesting it’s a statement rather than a question. He sounds doubtful, almost as if he thinks Peter must have bought the books for show.

Peter grins, shrugs, and answers anyway, because this is actually going to be a conversation if he has to sacrifice a sheep to make it so. “What do you take me for, Felix? Of _course_ I like Shakespeare.” 

Felix studies him calmly. “Which do you like?” 

“ _Hamlet_ ,” Peter answers promptly, with relish. He doesn't even have to think about it. 

Felix laughs, shaking his head slowly.

Peter raises an eyebrow, but can’t quite manage to look properly affronted in the face of Felix's honest engagement with the topic.

“Of course you like _Hamlet,_ Felix expands, apparently amused. “I could just see you wandering around with a skull, waxing poetical.” 

“Don’t worry, Felix,” Peter returns, leaning forwards, “you can be the Horatio to my Hamlet. Or would you rather be my Ophelia?” 

Felix rolls his eyes, but he’s still grinning, loose and easy. It makes him look surprisingly young, open and receptive, youthful, perhaps. Peter wants him to look like that all the time, but he also wants to keep this sight all for himself.

 

Their conversation continues smoothly after the somewhat halted start, with the occasional pause induced by one or both of them reaching for their coffee and/or the chosen topic coming to a natural end. It’s comfortable and normal, and Peter can't remember the last time he spoke to someone as openly as he’s talking to Felix. 

As they talk, the tension bleeds out of Felix’s shoulders and the straight line of his back, allowing him to melt more comfortably into the leather couch, head tilted back. His fingers move occasionally – tap his knee, curl and uncurl around his cup, smooth over the fabric of the couch – and in the absence of the lollipop stick, he occasionally bites at his lower lip, teeth grazing over smooth skin.

Peter, on the other hand, remains still and settled, content in his own space and smugly satisfied with the fact Felix is in it too, but he never stops talking, always willing to fill silence with a new topic. Felix opens up slowly, but open up he has, and Peter is fascinated.

 

Some time later, Felix glances at his watch in passing, and stills suddenly, clearly surprised by how much time has passed. He looks up, slight hesitance in blue eyes fading out almost immediately into the relaxed smile he’d worn while they talked. 

Peter is pleased that they'd made it this far. Peter might be dangerous, but not to Felix. 

“I have to go,” Felix says, shifting to rise from the couch. “It’s late, and I’m working tomorrow.”

“So dedicated, Felix,” Peter croons.

Felix flushes a little, embarrassed, and rubs a hand over the back of his neck, but he’s still ready to leave, so Peter gets up, sliding smoothly to his feet.

He steps closer, right up into Felix’s space again – it’s practically habit now – and Felix doesn’t flinch, doesn’t twitch, and doesn’t react negatively at all. Peter stays quiet and calm, waiting, and then Felix exhales unsteadily, leaning in as if tugged by a string, and their lips meet.

It’s just a kiss. It doesn’t deepen into something they can’t deny, causing them to start ripping clothes off and tumble onto the couch because they can’t bear to wait long enough to reach the bedroom. Instead, the kiss develops slowly and naturally, starts sweet and chaste and deepens steadily until they’re biting bruises into each other’s lips and pressing close.

It ends when they need air, lips breaking apart. They stay close, however, breathing the same air, watching each other intently, until Felix nods decisively. “I don’t put out on the first date,” he whispers, amusement dancing in his bright eyes. “You’re going to have to work for it.”

“Of course,” Peter replies, hands settling comfortably on Felix’s hips. “Cinderella must hurry home before midnight, after all.”

“Funny,” Felix breathes against his lips, soft as silk, and then he bites down, hard.

Peter doesn’t flinch, but he smiles when he tastes blood, licks it off. Felix's eyes gleam as he watches.

“What shoe size did you say you are?” Peter asks innocently. 

Felix rolls his eyes and finally steps back, uncurling his hands from Peter’s shirt. He goes to the door and Peter follows, skips ahead to open it for him, and bows as Felix walks out, his steady, confident stride more of stalk than ever. 

In the hall, Felix slows, spins around, and lifts his hand in a lazy salute. “Don’t pine too much,” he drawls. “We’ll see each other again soon.”

Peter watches him go, self-satisfied smirk lingering as he wonders if and when Felix will realise just how much of a mess Peter left his hair in. 


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Is this a date? 
> 
> It's totally a date.
> 
> They're dating, now. 
> 
> Progress.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry it took so long, guys. But it's longer. It's longer, right?

Peter is at the coffee shop bright and early the following day. It’s quiet without the usual queue of desperate customers, and peaceful, really, though Peter mostly thinks it’s drab without Felix. The barista behind the counter is a small blonde that he hasn’t been served by before, and she gives him his coffee quickly and efficiently, doesn’t seem to mind bringing it over to his booth.

Peter misses watching Felix get riled up about doing the same thing.

He had arrived so early deliberately, as it meant he had a good hour at least before Felix began his shift. That, in turn, meant he could watch him behaving as he normally would at work, minus the additional factor of Peter’s demanding presence, because Felix wouldn’t expect him to arrive until roughly lunchtime, in accordance with the pattern he had maintained the last week.

Peter likes establishing patterns, because he likes breaking them.

He passes the time drinking his coffee and pretending to read the newspaper he plucked from the frame on the wall, right up until Felix walks in.

 

He was wearing a long coat this time, in deference to the weather. It’s raining, had looked threatening earlier, and Peter hopes fervently for more of the same, because Felix looks _good_ in the ankle-length black coat. It shapes his frame without clinging, and it must be warm, because he sheds it quickly as soon as he’s inside, clever fingers making short work of the buttons before he shrugs out of the garment and hangs it on one of the spare hooks.

Next, he rolls the sleeves of the familiar black shirt up to his elbows, baring pale, slender forearms and finally circles the counter to join the other bartender. She greets him cheerfully, and he seems relaxed if quiet, for they talk little despite the absence of any waiting customers.

Peter gives them some more time to enjoy each other’s company before he decides it’s been long enough since he’s spoken to Felix, and stalks across the room towards the counter. Felix is already asking her to make a black coffee, which makes Peter practically beam as he leans against the counter directly in front of Felix.

“And a muffin, please,” he drawls, speaking to the girl but with his eyes fixed upon Felix, “the double chocolate one.” Felix regards him calmly as he dials it up, clearly curious but also determined not to ask about it.

Peter hands the money over, catching Felix’s gaze as he licks slowly over his bottom lip.

Felix colours, and then gives him a long-suffering look. “I’ll bring it over.”

Peter lingers to drink in the vision of a slightly flushed Felix, only turning away to saunter back to his booth when Felix starts to look irritated.

He hears footsteps before he’s even halfway there, and it makes him smile. They’ve come so far in such a short time.

Peter settles down again inside the booth, smiles again as Felix takes up his usual position opposite him. Felix places the cup of coffee and the muffin down in front of Peter, who watches the movement of his graceful hands keenly, not even the slightest bit embarrassed at how obviously he admires Felix. When he looks up, Felix is slightly flushed again – and isn’t that a lovely expression – but he also looks a shade challenging, as if daring Peter to mention it. 

He doesn’t – doesn’t want to make Felix uncomfortable.  
“Did you make it home on time, Cinders?” Peter asks instead, all faux-innocence, and Felix’s complicated expression dissolves into a short laugh as he shakes his head, probably in disbelief. 

“No,” he replies immediately, shifting to lean back more comfortably in the booth, “and since you forgot to retain one of my shoes, our reunion will not be forthcoming.” 

Peter wishes he could spend years just listening to Felix talk.

“I don’t need to, Felix,” he replies. “Unlike that useless Prince, I remember what the people I am interested in look like.” 

Felix studies him levelly, as if searching for a lie. Peter’s expression doesn’t change.

 

Peter reaches out, suddenly, breaking the moment. His hand closes around the muffin, which he lifts, offers to Felix, who takes it on reflex. “For you,” Peter clarifies sweetly.

Felix blinks at him, waits for the punch line. When it doesn’t come, he puts the muffin down again, this time on his side of the table. He raises an eyebrow. “Are you trying to demonstrate your ability to provide sustenance?”

Peter beams at him, and then laughs, absolutely delighted at his response. “Only if it’s working,” he replies merrily, lifting his cup to sip his fresh coffee. 

Felix doesn’t laugh, only smiles at Peter’s reaction, and Peter wonders what it is that makes him act so differently in public, what happened to leave him so closed-off and guarded. Even while he talked to Peter, he was tense, shoulders making a hard line that Peter wanted to soothe with warm hands. But this was neither the place nor the time, and Peter did not ask.

Felix starts on the muffin, long fingers peeling the wrapper away and separating a large chunk, which he lifts to his mouth to eat it slowly, savouring the taste.

_Chocolate, then. Predictable, when so much about him is not._

 

“I want to take you out for dinner, Felix,” Peter says suddenly, leaning forwards across the table, bright eyes intent.

Felix looks stunned. He stops moving entirely, last bite of muffin only just swallowed, the next chunk held in abruptly idle fingers as he stares at Peter, clearly disbelieving. 

His look suggests that this is a profoundly unusual occurrence, but that cannot be true. Felix is…Felix is beautiful in his concealed wildness, his quiet but engaging humour, in the way he seems to sense danger when other people do not. Felix is beautiful in his intelligence, in the deliberate way he speaks, in the calm he works on like armour that can and will protect him. Peter can’t understand how it is that only he seems to see it.

At the same time, he’s glad that it’s just him, that he can have Felix all to himself.

“Dinner,” Felix says eventually, and Peter smiles a little, encouraging. “You want to go to a restaurant,” Felix continues slowly, “to have dinner with me?” 

Peter nods again, and it’s suddenly clear. Felix isn’t surprised by the interest; he’s surprised by the location. Going home with Peter was fine, because it’s a private, secluded place where he could be himself and only Peter would see. Going to a restaurant was the exact opposite. Going to a restaurant was a public affair. Going to a restaurant was a date. 

Peter knew the exact moment when Felix understood the implications of what Peter was asking him, because the uncertainty faded out of his expression, leaving behind the calm amusement Peter was used to seeing when they interacted. “Okay,” he said, nodding slowly. “We can do that.”

“Excellent,” Peter replied breezily, focusing on his coffee again.

They pass the next half an hour or so chatting about various topics – the _Game of Thrones_ finale, the book Felix is reading, the new exhibition at the art gallery down the street. It’s light, inconsequential stuff, but it relaxes Felix, and Peter loves it.

Finally, though, Felix realises he does have to put some effort in if he’s going to keep his job, so he gets up to return to his place behind the counter. Peter follows suit, rising fluidly to his feet and sweeping forwards to press a light, chaste kiss to Felix’s lips. There’s a second of nothing, but then Felix responds, soft lips yielding to Peter as Peter wraps his arms around Felix’s waist.

When they break apart, Peter practically _waltzes_ out of the coffee shop, and Felix is smiling.

 

Peter is waiting outside when Felix’s shift ends, standing against the wall. Felix emerges on time, looking around with a trace of uncertainty that fades as soon as he sees Peter. Peter pushes off the wall to walk towards him, and then meet in the middle.

They don’t kiss, this time, but it’s enough of a romantic cliché that they both react to it, amusement erasing any residual awkwardness. 

Peter takes Felix’s hand, waits until Felix nods ever so slightly, and then keeps hold of it as they walk down the street, fingers interlocked.

 

The restaurant is nice. The atmosphere is warm and friendly, it’s tastefully decorated, and the staff are both pleasant and attentive. Considerable work has clearly been put into attaining a good reputation and living up to it, but both Peter and Felix fit in well despite their casual attire. Felix had changed before he left work; swapping out his shirt for a blue one, a shade darker than his eyes.

Peter likes it, so he tells him, watches him brighten.

They order their food not long after that, deciding against starters in favour of dessert. Peter orders braised lamb shoulder with root vegetables and mashed potato, and Felix decides on the chicken linguine. They order a bottle of red wine to share.

The food is slow in coming, but they do not notice the passage of time, absorbed in their conversation, in each other. Felix starts their evening nervously, glancing around from time to time, clearly wary, but as they talk, and as nothing untoward happens, he relaxes, graceful even as he slumps back, practically sprawling back. By contrast, Peter leans forwards, elbows resting on the table, eager. 

They expand on their earlier conversation. Felix talks again about the book he is reading, a fictional tale of war and blood, warriors and victims, desperation and sacrifice. There are no heroes to speak of, and Felix talks eagerly of the various races and their mannerisms, how it all fits together to form a delightful tapestry, a world without end.

In turn, Peter tells him about the music he cherishes, about the record player he restored one long rainy day and set up in his bedroom, about his records. How he listens to them when he is sad and when he is happy, how they have become the soundtrack to his life. He talks about the piano he owned as a child, about how he hated his lessons, about switching to an oboe instead and loving the sounds that he could produce from it.

They share their experiences. They swap amusing stories, and they talk seriously about current news events. It’s candid and personal, but it doesn’t hurt. They avoid the difficult questions and the difficult stories. Peter does not find out why Felix flinches sometimes at loud noises, and Felix does not find out why Peter refuses to mention his family, why he has so few friends that he spends so many hours at the coffee shop.

Then the food arrives and they continue to talk, sipping wine as they devour their separate meals. The plates are removed and they talk some more, thoughtful over wine and then dessert. Felix chooses the chocolate cake and Peter the cheesecake, and because a family is watching them, looking scandalized, they feed each other off their spoons, laughing through each mouthful.

Peter doesn’t let Felix see the bill, pays for the whole thing. 

 

Peter walks Felix back to the coffee shop. Felix doesn’t offer his address, and Peter doesn’t take him home with him again. Instead, he bids him goodnight, turns to go. 

Felix’s hand catches at his sleeve, tugs, and Peter turns around. 

Felix kisses him, soft lips pressing urgently to his. Peter cups his face, runs his thumbs over sharp cheekbones, and knows he will destroy anyone who ever tries to hurt Felix. Felix wraps his arms around Peter’s waist, draws him closer as the kiss deepens naturally. There’s a fondness in his gaze that Peter knows is reflected in his own. 

Finally, they pull away, Peter darting in to nip at Felix’s lower lip one last time as they part. 

“Goodnight, Peter,” Felix says, pressing his thumb to his lip as if to make the slight pain linger. 

“Until tomorrow, Felix.”


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A brief interlude from the usual: Felix is sick.
> 
> Peter takes him soup.

“He’s sick,” she snaps, seconds after Peter crosses the threshold. “Very sick, so I made him go home.”

Peter continues up to the counter, leans on it, studies her. There’s not much else to look at when Felix isn’t there. 

She’s clearly the replacement barista, but she looks like she knows what she’s doing, attention halved efficiently between the humming coffee machine and Peter. The usual customers are also in residence, but Felix’s absence means Peter won’t stay. After all, there isn’t much point.

He doesn’t put too much thought into what he says next. He knows he wants to see Felix – needs to see Felix, really – and if he’s not coming into work, then Peter will go to him. So: “I’m going to need his address,” he says, going for sweet and innocent. 

She doesn’t look convinced by it.

“He might be lonely,” Peter continues earnestly, leaning forwards further, intent. “Do you want him to feel lonely?”

She eyes him critically, sighs. “You’re going to take him soup.” It’s more of a statement than a question, but Peter decides to answer anyway.

He grins. “ _Chicken_ soup.”

She rolls her eyes, but she’s sort of smiling as well, and she gives him Felix’s address.

 

Felix lives in a ground floor apartment only a couple of blocks away from the coffee shop. It’s a short trip, so Peter takes his time, stops to pick up the soup and a bottle of water on the way. He doesn’t have much to go on – he never gets sick – but because it’s Felix, he wants to do this right. 

The paint on Felix’s door is peeling, the wood underneath worn and old. It’s quiet, but Peter can hear what he thinks is a television set. He shifts his purchases under one arm to knock, then waits impatiently.

He hears faint shuffling and then a few incomprehensible, muffled words, probably telling him to go away. 

He knocks again.

A few more seconds of what sounds like swearing and angry movements inside, and then the door is wrenched open. 

Felix looks – well, sick, really. His hair is sticking up in every direction, his bright blue eyes are slanted with both exhaustion and irritation, he’s pale and clammy, he’s wearing a baggy shirt and striped trousers, and now that the door is open, he’s sort of clinging to it in order to stay upright.

Peter thinks he’s beautiful.

He does look ill, though, and Peter can see why his colleague made him stay at home. So he doesn’t linger long in the doorway and doesn’t ask permission to enter either, instead steps smartly across the threshold to take hold of Felix and steer him back into his apartment. 

The TV is on and bright pictures are flickering on the screen, but the volume is turned right down and it’s set to some kind of antiques show, which Peter doubts Felix has any real interest in. There’s a telltale mound of duvet and pillows on the couch, so Peter helps Felix over to it, supporting most of his weight.

Felix curls up in his nest, pops his head out. 

“Why are you here?” he asks, hoarse, bunged up and miserable, blinking slowly as he struggles to focus, and Peter can’t help but smile down at him.

“I bought soup,” he says merrily, holding the carton aloft in a way that suggests it ranks somewhere above the crown jewels. He’s expecting Felix to be appropriately staggered by his ability to come bearing gifts. 

Felix frowns, apparently confused. “Soup?” he repeats slowly, and he sounds like he’s inwardly questioning Peter’s sanity.

Peter nods, smiling brightly. “Soup,” he confirms cheerily. “I’m here to make you feel better, Felix.”

“Right,” Felix replies, burying his head back into his pillow.

Peter takes the hint and heads for the kitchen, behind the second door he opens. 

 

Felix’s kitchen is, somehow, exactly what he expected. Like the living room Felix was trying to hibernate in, it was decorated in warm, homely colours, light oak featuring, and it felt comforting and safe rather than staid or dull, a place wherein one could live happily, where one could feel secure. Felix’s apartment, much like Felix himself, was unpretentious and content to simply be what it was, and Peter, well – Peter liked it.

He hums under his breath while the soup turns in the microwave, opening cupboards at random to examine the contents. Glasses in one, mismatched cups in another, plates and bowls in the third – all very organised, all very nice, all very [i]Felix.[/i] Organised but not boring, predictable but not uninteresting. 

The microwave pings. 

Peter pours the soup out into one of the bowls and sets it on a tray, spoon alongside it, and then adds a glass, which he half fills with water. Satisfied, he carries it out to Felix, who has cocooned himself in the duvet, ruffled blonde hair the only part of him that was visible.

Peter set the tray down on the table. 

He resists the impulse for all of three seconds, and then gave in, reaching out to touch Felix’s hair. He ran his fingers through the soft strands a few times, and then Felix stirs, pushing the duvet down to study Peter, blinking owlishly. 

Peter realises he's smiling dopily, tries and fails to stop.

He shakes himself. 

“You need to drink something, Felix. Up you get.”

Felix protests immediately, sliding down back into the duvet like a puppy resisting bath-time, and Peter has to suppress the urge to coo as he reaches down, pushing the duvet back with one hand and tugging Felix out of it with the other. 

Kitten-weak, Felix can’t do anything to stop him, and he looks utterly betrayed, but Peter is more concerned by how overheated he is, how he can feel the heat from his skin through his clothes. “Drink,” he instructs, lifting the glass of water, and, meekly obedient for once, Felix does, swallowing down a few gulps before Peter makes him take a break. 

Then there’s the soup, and Peter helps Felix by bringing the bowl closer when his arm starts to shake, holding it there as he works through it slowly. Felix seems barely aware, gaze unfocused and hands shaking with tiny tremors, but as he eats, colour returns to his cheeks and he begins to look less like the living dead.

When he’s done, Peter takes the tray back into the kitchen to wash up.

 

Peter strolls back into the room to find that Felix has finished the water and looks much better, brighter eyes and a more focused gaze easing some of Peter’s worry. 

“You’re actually here,” Felix says softly, and he sounds surprised. “I didn’t – I thought I’d dreamt it.” He even sounds better – still a little hoarse, but less hesitant, more like the Felix Peter sees at the coffee shop.

“Do you dream of me often, Felix?” Peter asks blithely, beaming at him.

“Nightmares, sure,” Felix allows, amused. “You being so ridiculously domestic, not so much.”

“Never doubt me, Felix,” Peter replies, sinking down into the spare chair. “I will be the fairytale prince to your damsel in distress whenever you need me to be.”

Felix sort of scowls at him, but the effect is ruined by the fact he looks so adorable. “I am not a damsel in distress,” he declares evenly. 

Peter grins. “Sure you are. You’re sick – that is, in distress – and I came to tend to you, which makes me the heroic prince.” He beams, delighted with his analysis of the situation.

Felix snorts. “I’m barely sick. There’s no hideous fate to save me from.”

“It’s very romantic,” Peter continues blithely, putting his feet up on the table. “Me coming to your aid in a time of need and all that. We should probably kiss.”

Felix side-eyes him. “Is this going to go on for long?”

Peter grins. “Why, do you have somewhere else to be?”

Felix rolls his eyes, shifts so he’s sat upright on the sofa, duvet discarded to one side. Peter misses the little blanket burrito Felix had made of himself simply because he looked like a hibernating hedgehog – read: adorable – but he’s glad to see Felix is improving steadily.

There’s a moment of silence, and then: “how did you get my address?” Felix asks, half suspicious, half wary. He starts picking at the edge of the duvet, restless as ever. 

“The other barista gave it to me,” Peter replies simply, shrugging. “She’s clearly invested in our future. I like her.”

Felix looks amused, quirks an eyebrow. “We have a future, now?”

“Of course we have a future, Felix,” Peter practically purrs. “We’re perfect together. We’re Romeo and Juliet.” 

Felix narrows his eyes. “You do remember how that ends? Quick reminder: badly. If anything, we’re Beatrice and Benedict.” 

“ _Much Ado About Nothing?_ ” Peter raises his eyebrows. “Really? Sure, it’s tolerable, but there’s better.”

“You said we were Romeo and Juliet. I don’t think you’re in any position to judge.”

Their conversation continued in a similar vein, spanning multiple Shakespeare plays and the occasional sonnet, spiraling sideways into John Donne once or twice, and ending with a foray into Hemingway. It went on for some time, and they both contributed more or less equally. Like every one of their other conversations to date it was easy and casual, comfortable, even, and it only stopped when Peter insisted on getting Felix a second glass of water.

 

Peter sets the glass down on the table in front of Felix, turns towards his seat. He stops when he feels slender fingers curl around his wrist, turns back around.

Felix doesn’t ask – he merely tugs – and Peter responds instantly, shoving the rest of the duvet onto the floor to settle down next to him on the couch.

Felix doesn’t release his wrist; instead tugs him forwards again, this time into a kiss. 

Felix had been ill, was still a little ill, so it should be disgusting. It should taste bad and smell bad and perhaps even be a little sticky, but it wasn’t. Sure, Felix was still a little too warm against him and his pulse was still worryingly fast, but he tastes like Felix – _like home_ – with the added bonus of chicken soup. There was nothing bad about it.

The kiss stays chaste, but Felix’s clever fingers curl into Peter’s hair while Peter wraps his arms around Felix, and they both hold on tight. They take a beat to just exist in each other’s space, until Felix twitches suddenly and pulls away, muttering about contagious viruses. 

Peter halts his retreat by simply refusing to let go of him, and meets his gaze squarely. “Felix. Do I look like the type of person that gets sick?”

Felix regards him steadily for a long moment. “You can’t avoid sickness by sheer willpower.”

“I can.”

Felix shakes his head, but he’s smiling. 

They kiss again.

A little after that Peter finally persuades Felix to rest, and he falls asleep with his head pillowed on Peter’s lap while Peter strokes his hair.

Needless to say, Peter stays the night, goes home the following day with an aching back and a crick in his neck. 

 

Peter gets sick. 

Felix brings soup.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Road trip! 
> 
> Peter and Felix take a weekend out to...do romantic things. 
> 
> There are...problems.

"Let’s go away for the weekend, Felix,” Peter suggests. 

It’s a particularly wet Thursday morning, and as such the coffee shop is busier than usual, catering for dozens of people who are just trying to escape the latest downpour. The floor is already getting damp, and a third barista emerges from the kitchen with a mop in hand to start clearing it up. She looks pointedly at the queue forming behind Peter, and then at Peter himself, who smiles.

She huffs, and Peter turns his attention back to Felix. 

Felix closes the cash drawer with a decisive click, slender fingers lingering on the side of the till. There’s a hint of wariness in the way he’s standing, but he looks carefully, hesitantly, interested, so Peter holds his breath and waits. 

“Really,” Felix says flatly.

“Absolutely,” Peter confirms brightly. “We’ll hire a convertible, find a lovely little tourist destination with a hotel, and be appallingly romantic for three days straight.” He dips his head, looks up at Felix through long eyelashes. “What do you say, Felix? Do you want to be appallingly romantic with me?”

Felix’s expression is as calm as ever, but Peter can see the corner of his mouth twitching, and eventually he just lets the smile blossom. It’s adorable.

“Okay,” he says quietly. 

Peter holds back for all of three seconds, and then he leans in the rest of the way across the counter and kisses him. There’s a brief pause wherein Felix doesn’t react and Peter wonders if he’s somehow miscalculated, but then Felix responds. 

Peter winds his fingers through Felix’s hair, tugs lightly until Felix opens his mouth, and then proceeds to thoroughly explore with his tongue. One of Felix’s hands curls around Peter’s neck, and he presses the other to Peter’s back, keeping him close.

By the time they finally part, Felix’s hair is thoroughly ruffled and they’re both a little wide-eyed, and dazed, lips pink and slightly swollen. They stay close for a beat or two more, and then Peter saunters off to his usual booth and Felix gets back to work.

When the queue has abated a little, Felix brings his coffee over. Peter tips him heavily, explaining that it’s _for the excellent service, Felix,_ and lingers long after he’s finished his coffee. Felix glances over every so often, smiling, and Peter always smiles back. 

In anyone else, this level of sappiness would have made Peter feel nauseous, but he just wants to buy Felix flowers and chocolate and kiss him by the river. 

 

When Felix emerges from the coffee shop at the end of the Friday shift, duffle bag in hand, Peter is waiting outside in a shiny red convertible, booted feet propped up on the dash and black sunglasses obscuring his eyes.  
As soon as Peter sees Felix, he reaches up, pulls the sunglasses down onto the tip of his nose, and smiles. “Get in, Felix. Your chariot awaits.”

Felix rolls his eyes, but he gets in, tossing is bag onto the back seat. “Very _Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas,_ ” he comments, glancing sideways at Peter. “But I’m not doing drugs with you.”

“Oh, Felix,” Peter purrs, shifting to lean over and into his space. “We don’t need intoxicants to have a good time.”

Felix fists a hand into his shirt, and tugs him up into a kiss. It’s rough and a little sloppy, but neither of them have any complaints to make, and when Felix breaks it off, they’re both grinning. 

Peter narrows his eyes. “Are you trying to shut me up, Felix?”

Felix smiles, slow and lazy. “Is it working?”

Peter kisses him again. 

A few minutes later, they finally leave, finely tuned engine rumbling nicely as they coast down the road. 

 

“C’mon, Felix. Out you get.” Peter has mastered the wheedling tone to perfection, but it achieves absolutely nothing when set against Felix’s flatly unimpressed look. 

“It’s a gas station. I think you can manage on your own.”

“ _Please,_ Felix?” Peter tries, practically projecting innocence. “I might get lost.”

“It’s a gas station,” Felix repeats, and his tone is somehow even flatter than before. Peter hadn’t thought that would be possible. 

“Haven’t you seen _Supernatural?_ ” Peter replies intensely, leaning on Felix’s door. “I might get kidnapped. Or killed. And then you’d have to avoid the police on your own.”

Felix’s eyes narrow. “And why do I need to avoid the police?” The flat disinterest has vanished from his tone, replaced by a certain kind of coldness that suggests that if Peter doesn’t answer him immediately and to his satisfaction, there will be trouble. 

Peter thinks he probably shouldn’t like it as much as he does.

He shrugs, grins. “I didn’t rent the car. I took it.”

Felix stares at him for a long moment. “So we’re going to be spending our wonderfully romantic vacation on the run?” The coldness is steadily leaking out of his voice, and Felix sounds amused enough that Peter feels safe enough to nod as he leans in and kisses him lightly on the cheek. 

Felix’s gaze sharpens. “Good.”

Peter steps back to let him out of the car, and Felix gets out immediately, reaching for Peter’s hand. They walk into the gas station holding hands, and proceed to amble aimlessly up and down the aisles, discussing the hypothetical value of various items and picking up chocolate bars. Peter pays, squeezes Felix’s hand and refuses to let go when he tries to get his wallet out.

 

Several hours later they stop at a diner. The car park is almost empty, the only other occupants a battered white Jeep and a rusty VW. Peter pulls up next to the VW, slotting the convertible neatly into the space. He beams smugly at Felix, who rolls his eyes and gets out. 

Inside, it’s clear why so many people have avoided it. As well as its’ isolated location, the floor is sticky and clearly hasn’t seen a mop in weeks, the tables are cheap plastic and most are listing sideways, and the waitress is reading a magazine behind the counter. She doesn’t even look up at the sound of the door closing behind them. 

Peter strolls over, tugging Felix behind him, and taps on the counter, eyebrow already raised.

She looks up, studies both of them, and produces two sticky laminated menus from behind the counter. “Sit anywhere. I’ll come over.” Then she looks straight down at her magazine again, profoundly disinterested. 

Peter turns to survey the room. “By the window.”

He walks over, tugging Felix along again – he has a habit of hanging back, letting Peter go first – and takes a seat at the booth he’s chosen. Felix sits opposite him, which is familiar enough to make them both smile. 

When the waitress finally ambles over, notepad and pen in hand, Felix orders the sirloin steak with fries, and Peter decides on the pork ribs. They share a jug of water. The waitress is visibly unimpressed with what they’ve chosen, but she stalks off into the kitchen without saying anything. 

Peter takes Felix’s hand just to watch him smile again, and he obliges beautifully, curling his fingers around Peter’s. They sit like that, hands stretched across the table, talking idly about the drive thus far and the rumours of bad weather to come, until the food arrives. 

The plates are large and the portions massive, but they finish it all. Peter cleans off each of the ribs with his teeth, nipping delicately at the small pieces of meat remaining, and then he closes his lips around the bone and sucks, catching Felix’s gaze. 

Felix smirks, but his eyes go dark and he bites at his lip. 

 

They both decide against dessert, and Peter pays the bill, again refusing Felix’s attempt to contribute. “My treat,” he tells him, as they approach the exit. 

“I’m not the girl in this relationship,” Felix tells him flatly. 

Peter beams, because – _relationship_ – and then smirks at Felix. “Maybe not,” he allows, “but you are mine, and I intend to look after you.” 

Felix grins, just a little, and he sounds amused when he replies. “I don’t need looking after.” But there’s something else there too, an undercurrent of tension that’s visible in the sharp lines of his face and in the way he suddenly avoids Peter’s gaze in favour of looking at the floor. 

“But I want to,” Peter responds quietly, and he’s not teasing anymore. But Felix doesn’t look up, not until Peter slowly takes his hand, giving him plenty of time to pull away. He doesn’t. 

Peter pushes the door open with his spare hand, holding it for Felix so that they can walk out together, hands still linked. It makes Felix smile; albeit only a bit, and Peter blames the sudden warmth in his chest on the way Felix’s angular features look when they’re illuminated by the glowing diner sign. 

They drive for a few more hours, Felix behind the wheel this time, and Peter stays awake by watching his hands, curled around the wheel and gearstick. They don’t talk much, both too tired to make meaningful conversation, but they chat a little, planning out possible routes and deciding on places to stay. There are no other cars on the road, and the only sounds in the area are their voices and the rumbling engine of the convertible. 

With night settling over them, it’s almost intimate. 

 

The motel they stop at is small and quiet. There are only a few cars in the car park, and most of the rooms are dark, but the reception is still lit, the warm glow spilling out onto the asphalt. Felix parks the car near the door, cuts the engine. They get out, grab their bags, and head inside, Peter taking the lead.

The young man behind the desk is dressed scruffily in a stained tee and jeans, a few days’ worth of stubble sprouting along his jawline. He looks as if he’s been awake for the last week at least, but he greets them cheerfully enough. After only a brief conversation, he hands them the key to the room with the biggest bed. 

They slept right through until 4am, when they were rudely awakened by the arrival of two policemen in a squad car working the ‘stolen red convertible’ case.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay, folks. This one wasn't easy.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter and Felix aren't sure why people have such a problem with being held at the police station overnight.
> 
> They enjoy it.
> 
> Lots.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Everything I know about the law and how police stations operate is from fiction, so there are likely to be inaccuracies.

The cop sighs. It’s a rather lengthy sigh, and very pointed, and it’s the third time he’s done it in the last ten minutes or so. Each and every time, the thick moustache perched on his upper lip quivers as if in fear, and even while otherwise distracted, Peter wonders idly what would happen if he reached over and tugged on one of the finely waxed ends. 

He grins, lips curling up against the pale, delicate skin of Felix’s neck, takes a moment to finish sucking the final hickey into the line stretching down from jaw to collarbone and admire what he’s created, and then finally leans back, satisfied.

Felix looks…relaxed. A little ruffled, perhaps, but ultimately and undeniably calm. Even when Felix is working at the coffee shop, an environment he’s very familiar with, he’s tense and vigilant, always wary of what’s going on around him. But when they’re alone, he relaxes, and the realisation that he’s able to induce that response even in their current situation makes Peter smile all over again.

When they’d been ushered into the small interrogation room and left there roughly half an hour ago, Felix had been on edge and restless, something dark in his eyes, slender fingers tapping together restlessly as he’d claimed one of the spare chairs. There was something wrong there, something Peter didn’t yet know, but instead of pushing, he’d slid gracefully onto Felix’s lap and set about distracting him.

And now?

Mission accomplished.

The cop looks relieved that they’re no longer in such close proximity to one another, even more so when Peter sits on the second chair for the first time, but the expression falters as he drags the chair over to sit as close to Felix as he can get, and then pointedly takes his hand, linking their fingers together.

Felix smiles, rubs his thumb over the back of Peter’s hand. 

The cop’s eyebrows furrow slightly as he glances between them. He looks down at his notes, then up at them again.

Peter raises an eyebrow.

The cop scowls. “You stole a car,” he says slowly, as if trying to convince himself that he is in fact reading it correctly, or perhaps that the whole situation isn’t a bizarre dream caused by overusing sleep medication, “to go on holiday?”

Felix nods. 

Peter beams.

The cop sighs for the fourth time. “Why?”

Peter shrugs. “There’s a lot of paperwork involved in renting. I thought I’d cut out the middle man.”

The cop is starting to look despairing. “You committed a felony to…avoid paperwork?” He looks as if he’s hoping Peter will suddenly produce a better excuse. 

Peter nods cheerfully.

The cop shakes his head, but seems to come to some sort of decision. “The company isn’t pressing charges. You two will spend the night here, but you’re free to go tomorrow morning. The vehicle has been confiscated. Enjoy the rest of your _vacation._ ” The last is said in a particularly scathing tone as he heaves himself upright to leave, so Peter salutes jauntily, still beaming, and tells him that they certainly will.

Peter turns back towards Felix just in time to see him roll his eyes.

“Let’s go on holiday, Felix,” he mimics, and that’s definitely amusement in his eyes, “take a weekend off. It’ll be fun, Felix.” 

“Are you not having fun?” Peter asks lowly, looking up at Felix through long eyelashes. 

“This is a police station, Peter,” Felix says, and even though he sounds reproving, he looks far from it. “We’re not _supposed_ to be having fun.”

“I’m not convinced that they have to be mutually exclusive, Felix,” Peter replies blithely, and then slides straight back onto his lap, settling his hands on Felix’s hips as Felix circles an arm around his waist. Peter beams, self-satisfied and unrepentant, and presses close.

“I like the idea of having you all to myself,” Peter murmurs, inching the tips of his fingers beneath the hem of Felix’s worn tee. He’s about to say something else – something about bars never keeping them apart – but then Felix surges forwards and traps his smirking lips in a kiss. 

It immediately degenerates into something deep and filthy as they get their hands on one another, and they only break apart when the door to the interrogation room clanks open again. Felix’s hair is a mess, his eyes are hot and dark, and he’s flushed, but the look he gives the new arrivals over Peter’s shoulder isn’t the slightest bit guilty or embarrassed: it’s flat, calm, and vaguely questioning. 

Peter loves him for it.

He twists around reluctantly, ending up so his back is against Felix’s chest and his head resting on his shoulder, and he can’t help but smile contentedly when Felix doesn’t let go of him, just adjusts his hold to accommodate his new position.

The cop from before has returned, but this time he’s brought company in the form of an attractive blonde woman who looks as if she means business and that anything less simply won’t be accepted. She beckons impatiently, a little irritated, but hiding it well, and Peter slides slowly off Felix’s lap, keeping hold of his hand. 

Felix rises with him, and they follow the two cops down the featureless grey corridor – wow, _dull_ – and along to the row of empty cells. “Looks like you’re on your own, tonight,” the male cop comments gleefully, as if he thinks that’s going to bother them, and Peter doesn’t have to look at Felix to know he’s smirking ever so slightly.

They get put in the same cell because the female cop doesn’t see the point in separating them, and the male cop doesn’t have a real reason for wanting to, and as soon as the two cops are strolling back down the corridor, Peter jumps Felix.

There’s a bunk bed in the cell, and Peter has Felix flat on the bottom mattress in moments, pinning him down to press kisses to his jaw and his collarbone, hands all over him. Felix reciprocates, yanking his shirt off with an impatient growl as one of the buttons catches, trailing slender fingers over Peter’s smooth skin, and gripping tight enough to leave bruises.

It’s just getting good – really good – when all the lights in the corridor go out, making them both freeze.

 

There’s a lengthy pause, and then a scratchy announcement informs them that the lights will be left off overnight. Peter starts snickering first, and in seconds they’re both laughing. 

After about a minute of that they hear a second announcement, asking them politely to keep the noise down.

It only makes them laugh harder.

“Don’t worry, Felix, I’ll protect you from the monsters,” Peter promises, once he’s got enough breath to speak.

“Check under the bed,” Felix tells him in a solemn, hushed whisper, and just like that they’re laughing again.

Their laughter fades out gradually as they become wrapped up in each other, exchanging soft kisses and pressing close, and although they try to be quiet – or, rather, Felix tries to be quiet, perhaps out of some lingering and frankly rather troublesome sense of _decency,_ or, more likely, because Felix doesn’t want to give Peter the satisfaction of watching him fall apart – they’re loud enough that the cop that wakes them up the following morning looks distinctly uncomfortable about his task, and doesn’t look at either of them directly. 

They’re released with the reminder that they have to find their own transport home and a warning not to offend again, left on the side of the road beside a crooked bus stop. It’s surprisingly warm despite the time of year, but Peter nonetheless drags Felix close and half-under his coat, so they can _conserve warmth while we wait, Felix._

“You’re a bad influence,” Felix tells him, pressing his cold lips to Peter’s neck.

“Anything less would only have disappointed you,” Peter replies, curling his hand around Felix’s hip when the other boy grins. 

The bus driver is, predictably, put out by a) their location, b) the fact that they have barely any money, and c) the fact that they can’t keep their hands off each other long enough to pay, but he concedes gracefully enough once it is confirmed that they do actually have enough money for the fare, and they squash together on one of the double seats, holding hands and looking out through the grimy window.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank-you, as always, for your time and your interest in this little story.


End file.
